


Swing Me (Round and Round)

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s Slang, Cold War, Crossdressing, Flappers, Have fuuuuun~, I certainly did, M/M, RusAme, Swing Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: An exhausted and stressed out superpower finds a relic of better days in the back of the hidden drinking cabinet he'd used during Prohibition, and suddenly the stress doesn't seem that bad; at least, not if he has the escape he'd long forgotten about: The glide of soft fabrics agains silk skin, the warmth of appreciative appraisal directed at him, and the comfort that - for a few precious hours - he could be anyone he wanted to be.If one sneaky nation hadn't intervened.





	Swing Me (Round and Round)

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHHH - it’s DONE!!!! I’ve had this in the works for several months now, and I can’t believe it’s actually done! I’m so excited!!!!!!  
> RusAme, Crossdressing Al, and so much fun! I hope you enjoy!

            The door slammed loudly and he sighed aggressively as he leaned up against it, letting himself settle comfortably. He could feel the tense muscles and knots that wound through his body loosening the longer he breathed quietly, taking in the undisturbed atmosphere of his own home. The longer he lay against the heavy wooden portal that separated his home from the rest of the unforgiving world, the longer he felt himself calm. His heartbeat was no longer the only thing that echoed in his mind, and the sounds of the world outside his focus registered in a gentle cascade of life.

            And, slowly, he could breathe again.

            He pushed himself off of the door with a huff, kicking off his shoes carelessly to the side as he moved farther into the house. He passed the living room and the darkened kitchen with barely a glance before slipping into his study. He waltzed straight passed the file laden desk and grabbed the bourbon from the cooling shelf where he’d left it the night before. He bit back the sigh that wanted to escape him at the thought of how much he’d drunk the night before, and resolved to have an early night. He really couldn’t risk showing up to the meeting hungover two days in a row, even if it had only been one vodka-loving nation who’d been able to tell.

            _“So inexperienced, little capitalist. Have you decided to take ‘drunk on your power’ to a more literal level?” Violet eyes smirked at him and he nearly reached out to **react** , but there were too many nations watching them interact, nervous and curious all the same, able to see but not to hear, and he **couldn’t**..._

He felt something in his hand give and he dropped the tumbler reflexively, watching it collide against the elevated surface, not even a foot drop, the shining crack in its surface noticeable even in the dim lighting.

            Right. Okay. He really shouldn’t be drinking right now. It was bad enough that Ivan caught every _twitch_ that made it past his mask, but if he was starting to lose control of his strength, a hangover was _not_ going to help.

            It was as he was settling the bourbon back where it belonged that something clicked in the cabinet, and he only had the time to widen his eyes and throw himself backwards before the front part of the cabinet collapsed outward in a controlled motion, revealing the hollowed out back portion he’d forgotten about.

            He gaped at the newly exposed nook, pushing himself off of the floor and eyeing it curiously when it failed to do anything that preceded dangerous content. Something gleamed inside, and he moved closer. He reached in, careful, ever so careful, and pulled out the gleaming object, almost unsurprised when he recognized the familiar weight of a bottle of unopened bourbon. He hefted it up to the light and caught sight of the year, and nearly dropped it.

            _Bootlegged Bourbon. 1929._

            This was his secret stash from the _Prohibition_. The one he’d thought Arthur had raided and drained when he’d come to visit the once, livid at his hypocrisy but unashamed when he’d indulged himself, the bastard.

            Which meant that…

            He nearly dropped the increasingly valuable bottle of aged bourbon when he reached for the cabinet again. He set it down in the cooling shelf, before frantically searching through the cabinet for something increasingly importa- ah!

            His hand caught on a length of fabric, familiar texture lighting his memory like neon lights at a speakeasy, and he smiled.

* * *

           Something was off with America today.

            Russia eyed his rival with an odd sense of apprehension and wariness. Normally, he wouldn’t concern himself with something like that unless it gave him the unexpected opportunity to taunt the younger blond. Like when the young nation had walked into their meeting yesterday in a sour mood, tired, enduring all the harping and nattering that the old nations of the Old World were used to dumping on the young New World superpower, and Ivan hadn’t been able to help himself when he’d realized the brat had been _hungover_.

            Today, something was different.

            He frowned, causing everyone around him to abandon their subtlety and abruptly distance themselves from the superpower’s potential threat range. He nearly rolled his eyes at the reflexive action but restrained himself; it would be a lot more fun when he was in the mood to fuck with their minds, which he wasn’t right now.

            He blamed America.

            Refocusing his attention on the rival superpower and his company, he noted that he was not alone in his suspicions about the younger nation. England’s eyes were gleaming, suspicious, as he watched his former colony. The Empire was hovering just outside of America’s range of focus, watching the younger silently, with an edge that he’d been well known for during the height of his power. And if so much of the room’s attention hadn’t been aimed at avoiding the two superpowers during the break, his unusual silence and the familiar look would’ve spread some serious concern. As it was, it only confirmed something for Russia himself.

            Something was off with America.

            The teenage superpower finally caught Russia’s thoughtful gaze and smiled, a would-be friendly grin had it not had the barest edge of teeth flashing from the side, blue eyes darkening from their usual cerulean shade to something more akin to a rich, stormy sapphire. It was a vicious little thing, taunt and threat, and it made the Soviet superpower smile, glass sharp and intimidating, sending the nations around them both fleeing into the halls to get _away_.

            Strange. The world was being particularly spineless today. Maybe they, too, sensed that there was something different in the air today than it had been only the day before? Or was he overestimating how cowardly the nations had grown – to comfortable and weak in their luxuries and their wealth that had been bought and paid for with the blood and tears of their vulnerable citizenry. Likely it was the latter, though England’s piercing gaze gave him pause for thought as the Empire slipped from the hall nearly unnoticed, leaving the two superpowers in the room alone.

            “Something you wanted to say, Russia?” a voice interrupted his thoughts, and now his attention refocused completely onto the smirking superpower opposite him. America’s smirk was sly, “You haven’t tried to clear the room so blatantly in years. Wanna bring me up to speed?”

            “My _dear_ Amerika,” he chuckled, glass smile and all, “what makes you think this has anything to do with _you_?”

            “Oh, I dunno,” his rival drawled, bracing himself against the sturdy wood of the meeting room table as he stared him down, “maybe the way we’re the only two left in the room? Or does that have some other significance in your twisted, corroded mind, old man?”

            “Ah,” he said, feigning surprise, “I forgot that little capitalist brats think the world revolves around their spoiled, self-centered lives.” Russia bared his teeth in another grin, and hid the pleasure in his smirk when he noticed the way America had honed in on him, attention narrowing as those blue eyes focused intensely on _him_ _and no other_.

            The way things should always be, between the two of them.

            They danced this dance often, too often for his liking. They wove and waltzed around each other, never daring to make contact, or having the gall to breach the empty space between the two. For over a century, he’d struggled with his desire for the New World nation, his battle only barely won with the overwhelming knowledge that bright-eyed America was _too young_ for his attention, especially in _that_ way. No, those bright eyes were too innocent, too vulnerable. And Russia would not be the one to bear the scorn of the world and the wrath of an empire for taking advantage of such a vulnerable nation in that manner – especially when he would rather keep the tie close than nonexistent.

            Until one day, when America had arrived with his leader to one of the Allied conferences, that bright innocence had visibly turned into a fierce protection and an inner strength unmatched by all save for Russia himself. Summer of 1945 had shifted his perspective on his former ally _entirely_ , and suddenly that battle he’d thought won – oh no. It reappeared with a _vengeance_.

            And then, just as suddenly as the renewed desire had appeared, he had been forbidden from fulfilling it.

            “Don’t tell me then,” his rival sighed, pulling him from his thoughts, and America’s eyes were studying him, thoughtful and amused, instead of the feigned resignation he heard in his voice.

            “I can hardly blame the world for being spineless cowards,” he shrugged, mentally smirking as he caught America’s lips quirk in amusement.

            “But you’ll take full advantage of it,” America smirked, and Russia raised a pointed brow and bared his teeth in a vicious smile.

            “And you have room for such accusations, _dorogaya Amerika_.” His _dear_ America snorted at the response, a half smile touching his lips, before he spun and left the room, the heat and desire the Russian had been desperately suppressing fleeing in his wake, leaving only the cold. The elder nation bit back an uncharacteristic sigh and traced the path his fellow superpower had taken out of the room, mind wandering.

            He wanted to rest, to retire from the evening with a good bottle of vodka and a nice evening meal after the ordeal that it was, dealing with the rest of the world. But America’s stride had been intent, and something had been off with the younger nation from the moment he’d walked in, and Russia knew he wouldn’t rest peacefully until he knew _what_.

            So, out he would go. And as canny as he was, he doubted that America had noticed the tracker he’d tucked into the other’s wallet when the teen had been half asleep and hungover at the meeting the day before.

            If nothing else…it would be _interesting_.

* * *

           He’d double and triple checked before heading out. It had been the worst kind of hassle, especially when he’d snuck out the back window in his outfit. But _this_ was absolutely worth everything.

            He spun as the music did, feeling the clack of black heels against the hardwood floor resound in his bones. He twirled, letting the fluidity of the motion hike the skirt of his dress up, flashing the inky stained pantyhose to any leering eyes, smirking when he felt the renewed attention. His current dance partner clasped his hand and around they went again, twirling, swirling, dipping and quickstepping their way through good ol’ 20s swing dancing. Dressed as he was – fine and fair, and not in brand new fifty’s flapper’s flair – he was attracting all kinds of partners, and hardly any of them were intimidated by his prowess on the dance floor. Most of them were taking it as a challenge.

            The music spun out and faded, and all the dancers moseyed off of the dance floor to rousing applause from their audience. He felt his lips quirk, a sense of warmth settling peacefully inside him, as his dance partner escorted him off to the bar for a drink. Flashback night at a juke joint – or a disco, as his kids were calling it – was absolutely what he’d needed.

            “A sidecar for ya, doll,” the bartender – a surprisingly young thing, barely old enough to work in the bar – winked at him, “On the house.”

            “Thank ya kindly, darlin’!” he chirped, a coy edge to his bright smile, and he could practically _feel_ the collective swoon. _Still got it_ , he thought, concealing a smirk, when he turned from the bar – drink in hand – to cross his long, sheer stocking clad legs as he reclined to watch the dance floor come back to life.

            “Bless the lord, she ain’t circled,” one of the boys down the bar whispered loudly to his companion, just a bit too drunk for it to have been an actual whisper.

            His companion snickered, “Not like you’re gonna go talk to ‘er, ya candy ass,” leading the rest of their group to snigger and the embarrassed flush on the first boy’s face.

            Alfred smirked, the sensation of success and satisfaction rushing through him. It had been a long time since he’d been young and androgynous enough to pass as a woman with little to no effort on his part, so he wasn’t sure if it was his success or the other men’s drunkenness that was blinding them to the breadth of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw. Though, to be honest, with all the frippery and cloth that went into women’s outfits in the centuries past, it was no surprise that skillful application of a corset and a shift could turn even him into a very attractive woman when he had a lot more to struggle with now.

            It had taken some _serious_ skill to pass as a woman in a dress that hardly covered him, so he was going to bask in the success as long as he could.

            It was maybe an hour later when a hush drew his attention from the renewed activity on the dance floor. The door had opened, a bit of a surprise since they were at full capacity for the night, and while he’d noted the movement, he’d been too engrossed in the sway of the pairs dancing. The odd subdued quiet and renewed gossip hush prompted him to turn towards the entry, and frown when he realized that there was nothing odd to gawk at.

            Until he realized that all the gawkers had suddenly turned to look at _him_ – no, _wait_ , they were looking _behind him_ – !!!

            He whirled around, and nearly fell off his stool when he was met with smirking violet eyes studying him. They took him in as he regained himself, brows furrowing and expression hardening, going over every detail – every thread of old silk, every shine of glittered cloth, every carefully applied line of makeup – and he almost flushed at the sudden, intimate scrutiny.

            Then he felt the heat rising to his face and realized that he _was_ blushing, especially when he realized that his sudden companion had settled a steadying gloved hand on his shoulder to keep him from falling off of the barstool. His _bare_ shoulder, he noticed, shoving down another flush of embarrassment tinged with a bubbling sense of anticipation, because his faux-fur wrap had slid down to his elbow when he’d jerked around.

            _Fuck_. He looked exactly the way he felt: completely caught off guard.

            “Now _this_ is a nice surprise,” the Russian commented, and he stiffened at the way gloved fingers ghosted down the inside of his arm to grip tightly at his elbow. The wickedness in that smile made him want to punch it through. “I was expecting to end up somewhere…not as nice as this, to be honest.”

            His words were fluid and fluent, with only the barest hint of an accent that turned everyone within hearing range into piles of mush. And while he wasn’t usually exempt from that, the ice that slid into his stomach at the admission forced his mind on track.

            _No one followed me when I left,_ he swallowed, _I checked to the point of paranoia._ Which meant that Ivan had either slipped a tracker on him that he hadn’t found…or the other man had people watching for him. People who’d _known_ who he was even with the dress and the makeup and the blatant _disguise_. He didn’t think he was able to hide the sheer relief in his eyes when Ivan smirked at him and he heard the whispered “ _Check your wallet, dorogoy_ ,” in his ear.

            He’d dig the transmitter out of the wallet he’d stashed in his purse in the hours after their parting. But at the moment, he was content with the knowledge of where it was.

            “I didn’t plan on having company when I went out,” he responded coolly, pulling himself together, “And particularly not _yours_.”

            “No?” that smug voice inquired lightly, violet eyes gleaming, “But you made it so _easy_ ,” his tone dropped down to a purr on the last word and Alfred could feel himself bristle at the implication, “I thought, perhaps, you changed your mind about us.”

            _Damn him_.

            Their words were spreading through the club; he could feel it, even if there hadn’t been many people who had heard them in the first place. Of all the goddamn places to talk about their _relationship_ , he had to bring it here, where anyone listening in would take it completely out of context. And everyone watching pressed closer, wanting to hear more, and he’d be damned if he forsook the mantle he’d donned when he’d set out tonight just because of _Ivan_.

            “Maybe a dance would change your mind?” he asked, projecting voice just a little louder so that all around him could hear, and the smile on Alfred’s face grew strained, “I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in quite some time.”

            _Ooooh,_ his minds whispered as the hush spread outwards from them and set off a wave of soft gossip. _That set the fox in the henhouse._

            Not like it wasn’t already there, just the communist amongst the unsuspecting, overly welcoming Americans. _Damn his people’s weakness for anyone with an accent_. Which he knew, well enough, had originated from _his_ fondness of his old friend’s soft, rumbling tones, and his father’s soothing, authoritative tenor.

            “I dunno,” he said, shaking his thoughts off and made sure the light southern lilt he’d worn the whole night was _exceedingly_ prominent this time, “you’ve given me the royal shaft a time a plenty, darlin’, I’m sure I don’t want a wet rag to ruin my night.”

            The gossip around them reared back with an astonished and excited _ooooh_ , before restarting even more vigorously, and he took vicious pleasure in the way Ivan’s expression darkened briefly.

            “ _Indulge me_ ,” he purred, sending shivers down the spine of all the ladies – and the gentlemen who swung that way, which were a surprising majority from what he could see – and prompting Alfred’s eyes to darken. “One dance surely isn’t much? Unless…you worry you can’t keep up?”

            “ _Excuse me?!_ ” he snapped, before he even realized he was retorting, and the gossip reared away again even as Ivan grinned. “Are you saying I _can’t dance_?”

            Ivan’s eyes were alight with a familiar heat and just a hint of malice when he said, smoothly, “You usually aren’t afraid to prove me wrong, _dorogoy_ ,” the whispers just kept getting _louder,_ and Alfred snapped. He stood, abruptly, whispers silencing themselves, and Ivan backed up, a smirk twisting his lips, as Alfred turned to face him with a scowl on his face. The heels he was wearing were small – nothing too fancy or too daring – and they just barely brought him eye-level with Ivan’s smirk, much to his displeasure. But that was high enough to make his goddamn point.

            The familiar melody of a Charleston beat caught his attention and he held out his gloved hand to the other nation, who smirked at the challenge in his eyes. “Well,” he said, voice low and sultry, “that’s our song they’re playing, Red. Why don’t you show me what you can do?”

            The triumphant light in Ivan’s eyes struck him for a split second and he cursed silently when he realized what he’d just done. He’d _let Ivan play him_.

            But by then, it was too late, and Ivan had twined his leather-gloved hand and Alfred’s satin-wrapped one with an iron grip that told the teenage nation that he wasn’t getting out of this at all.

            That was fine, he told himself, the competitive mindset that had provoked his half of the Cold War settling comfortably over his perspective like a familiar, well-worn coat. Ivan would _get his_ tonight. Call _him_ a poor dancer? No, _sir_!

            He almost didn’t hear the first beats of the music, and that threw them off nearly from the beginning. But he caught himself in time, and spun to the bop of the Lindy Hop. Kick step, round step, heel kick, turn; flare out, knees up, spin out, and –oooh, don’t let him do _better_ than _you_.

            Elaborate kick steps, twirls, letting Ivan demonstrate his strength by allowing the other man to lead him through flips, dips, lifts and more, and he just wasn’t done. He let the steps flow, allowing Ivan to use his bicep to flip him around and _behind_ him, never loosing the fluidity that crowned them as experienced dancers. And, _very reluctantly_ , he was exceedingly curious as to where Ivan had learned how to swing dance. Because the other nation was doing _exceptionally_ well.

            “Surprised?” the violet-eyed nation breathed, smirk dancing in his eyes as he took them around the floor again, and the younger nation growled.

            In return, he pushed off of Ivan’s booted foot, drawing a quick huff of surprise, and wrapped his legs around the other’s waist for a split second, before using his momentum to yank the sturdy nation forwards. The wolf whistles from the crowd caught Ivan off guard for the split second Alfred needed, switching his position to wrap around the other from behind before jumping down. He caught the almost-flail from the other superpower and snagged the arm, leading him into another flawless formation. He heard the cheering of the ladies on the sidelines, many of whom had caught his apparently effortless maneuvering, and smirked as Ivan _almost_ glared at him.

            The next time Ivan extended his arm to twirl him, Alfred blew him a smirking kiss, and the crowd around them went wild.

* * *

           The crowd’s roaring filled the streets for the brief minute it took for Ivan to shove open the door and kick it shut. It finally seemed to dawn on the snarky superpower in his arms that, _no_ , Ivan _wasn’t_ _kidding_ , and he certainly wasn’t putting him down, because the vicious glare he was leveled would’ve _atomized_ a weaker man.

            But Ivan wasn’t truly a man at all, and neither was the irate superpower in his arms, so he smirked down at the nuclear annihilation in those eyes, letting the heat he was feeling eclipse the other’s penchant for wonton destruction.

            Alfred should’ve known better than to let Ivan finish their dance with a bridal carry. And now, the younger superpower was stuck in a hold he couldn’t get away from. Not that the superpower truly wanted to, if the heat behind that glare meant anything. Ivan was exceptionally skilled at reading his fellow nations, but he _excelled_ in being able to catch every single one of Alfred’s unique tells. To other nations, Alfred appeared to wear his heart on his sleeve. To Ivan, he _did_ , and he couldn’t help it.

            Not that that was an entirely one-sided affair, and Ivan could grudgingly admit to it; Alfred was the only one who always knew what he was feeling, and even when he tried to hide it, the other could always tell something was off.

            Which meant that even as the nuclear danger in blue eyes gleamed, a slow, steady, _familiar_ heat slowly eclipsed it.

            Getting to his hotel room – debugged and searched, of course – didn’t take long after that.

            Ivan pressed closer, pressed into him seamlessly as he shoved him against the door; as if they’d done it a million times before, and it had never been enough. He felt his heart throb in his chest, yearningly, and Ivan’s smile filled with a familiar wicked heat – only ever directed to Alfred ( _only ever **for** Alfred_ ) – as his eyes traced down his figure appreciatively.

            “As much as it suits you,” the elder nation purred, and Alfred knew there was an insult somewhere in there, but couldn’t quite bring himself to care with the way Ivan’s fingers were sliding up his _too-damned-sensitive_ thighs, “I think that dress would look much better on the _floor_.”

            Ivan hiked him up on the door, an easier position for him as he settled between Alfred’s spread thighs and pushes them together. Alfred’s far from unfamiliar with the simmering heat that’s boiling in his southern regions, but as impatient as he was… “You wreck my dress,” he snarled, “and I’ll rip your balls off, bastard.” Let’s see Ivan try to fuck him then.

            There was absolutely no sign that he’d been heard, but when Ivan shucked his pants down to free himself, hiking Alfred up against the door for a better grip, the bastard was startlingly careful with the delicate fabric of his old flapper dress. Though that same restraint was certainly not there when the asshole deliberately ripped his favorite lace panties at the seams. He could _feel_ the bastard smirking against his neck.

            And then Ivan pressed against him, nothing but skin meeting skin for the first time after over a _century_ of yearning to be exactly where he was, and he let the world blur around him.

* * *

           "This isn't the first time you've been in a dress," there was no question and Ivan grunted as he curled the younger nation’s naked form against his own, "You're too comfortable in it. You walk confidently."

            Alfred, who’d been on the cusp of an exhausted sleep, thought of the stolen nights in a lady's frock, of the cascade of silk and velvet against his body's hypersensitive skin that had been such an integral part of how he’d grown. He thought of those days when Arthur was away, when he'd slip into town in the housekeeper's spare uniform and wander through the markets as if he belonged. He thought of those nights during his revolution, where the rustle of a skirt and a charming smile made any redcoat plied with enough drink spill all they knew to a pretty face.

            And then, he thought of that first night, when he'd snuck into the maid's room while she'd been cleaning at night, slipped into one of her few Sunday dresses, and just looked at himself in the nearly reflective surface of the window. That first night, when he'd lingered too long, and the maid had caught him in her clothes. That first night, when his pleading for secrecy met a kindred soul, and she taught him how to pass as a woman with a mischievous smile and an open mind that was as rare as a diamond in that time.

            He glanced back at his rival, who'd been watching the play of emotions on his face, and smirked. "Didn’t hear a question in that one, Vanya."

            “Don’t play coy now, Alushka,” Ivan said, but there was a layer of amusement that belayed the chiding words, “I suppose I should berate myself for not being as observant.”

            Alfred laughed, “Then you’d have to berate the rest of the world. No one has ever caught me in a dress before,” Ivan hummed at that admission, pleased, “I don’t intend for them to start now.”

            “Them?” the elder superpower inquired pointedly, a smirk curling on his lips, “and not _me_?”

            “Well,” he drew out, lips curling into a smile that matched the heat filling his eyes, “it’s not like I’ll make it _easy_ for you, _Vanya_. But I suppose…” he pushed himself up from the sheets, moving to shove Ivan back and straddle the violet-eyed superpower in a single, fluid movement. Ivan huffed in quiet surprise, but the grin he bore eclipsed it easily. “You’ll just have to work for it.”

            The grin Ivan wore – which would’ve terrified just about anyone _other_ than the one person it was directed towards – told him that the larger nation had absolutely no problem doing just that.

            And if it was anything like what had become of today…he looked forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Al's [Dress](http://www.unique-vintage.com/flapper/flapper-costumes/vintage-style-black-nude-embroidered-mesh-sleeveless-flapper-dress.html) and [Shoes](http://www.unique-vintage.com/flapper/flapper-shoes/1920s-style-black-t-strap-heels.html) can be found here! If the links don't work, please let me know, and I can get them to you otherwise!
> 
> [Swing Dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myJj0mNNe1Y&feature=youtu.be) , to watch at your pleasure!
> 
> Fifties Terminology in order of Appearance:  
> Doll - pretty or cute girl  
> Circled - married  
> Candy Ass - wimp or scaredy cat  
> Royal Shaft - having been bad or unfairly treated  
> Wet Rag - someone who’s no fun


End file.
